


Knock First, then Enter

by animehead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animehead/pseuds/animehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's impossible to masturbate in the middle of the day when your Bro is home. Dave doesn't know why he even bothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock First, then Enter

**Author's Note:**

> Anon request via tumblr.

You decide that masturbating in your bed while your Bro is in the living room on the phone is almost like masturbating when you have the house to yourself. This is especially true when your Bro’s phone conversation is about smuppets. 

Generally, Bro is a man of few words, but whenever he gets on the topic of those ridiculous bulbous assed, phallus nosed, nightmare inducers, he talks for _hours_. Sometimes you wonder if an actual live person is really on the other end of the line. 

Honestly, who the fuck is he talking to?

Fuck it. Whatever. You don’t care. 

_You have more pressing matters to deal with._

You rest your head against your pillow and groan with each stroke of your hand. It’s the middle of the day, so you’ve made sure to drape your blanket across the lower half of your body. Whenever Bro’s footsteps get too close to your bedroom door, you tug the blanket over you, shielding yourself from potential exposure and harassment. 

_It’s the perfect system._

The difficult part is keeping your eyes open so you can watch door when he barges in because he _always_ fucking barges in. You would lock it, but the last time you did that he kicked it open to ask whether or not you wanted Chinese food or Mexican. 

Who the fuck does that? 

_It’s hard not to close your eyes when it feels so good._

You speed up your hand, sucking in your bottom lip from the spike of pleasure you feel from the sound of his distorted voice outside the door. He’s clueless, ignorant to knowledge of what you’re doing in the privacy of your own room. You imagine him doing the same sometimes, lying in his own bed, his fingerless glove clad hand gripping his thick cock, thumb gently swiping back and forth across the head, calf muscles tight, toes curling…

_Fuck, you’re close._

Your free hand digs into your thigh, fingernails leaving small indentions in your pale skin.  Almost there. 

_Almost…_

“Aye, what do you want—”

Your eyes snap open and you grab the blanket and fling it over your cock, which is, of course, still incredibly hard. “W-What?”

“…for dinner?”

“I’m not hungry,” you say, breathless and frustrated beyond belief. 

_Every fucking time._

“All right then.”

You wait for him to leave, but that’s wishful thinking on your part. He hardly ever does what you expect him to do. 

“I just got off the phone,” he says as if you didn’t know that already. You were in the living room with him when his phone rang. “Getting that one I told you about. You know, the one with the red and white stripes. I think it’ll fit in good with the others. Still thinking about names. What do you think?”

“The question you should be asking is, does Dave really care about this. The answer you should be coming up with is, no. Dave does not give a fuck. Get out of my room.”

Bro ignores your demand and grabs the chair in front of your desk, rolls it next to your bed and sits down. “You’re a hostile little fuck, aren’t you?” he says. “Anyway, I was  thinking about calling it Dave… Or maybe some other ‘D’ name.”

“How about _Dick_ ,” you say as you attempt to glare daggers at him. 

“Yeah,” Bro says, and before you can register what’s happening, he’s grabbing the edge of your blanket and yanking it off of you. “How about it?”

“What the fuck, dude?!” A terrible and grossly unmanly shriek leaves your mouth as you attempt to pull your shirt down between your legs, but that’s so not happening. 

“Now what kind of bro would I be if I left it up to you to take care of that?” Bro asks. “You can barely hold a tablet pen, and this…” He leans forward and with barely any effort on his part, grips both of your wrists in one hand. He holds his other hand just above your cock, the tip grazing back and forth against warm, black, leather. “Is much more sensitive.”

“Fuck,” you moan and he wraps his hand around it and drags down, _slowly_. 

“Maybe one day,” he replies. 

It only takes a few quick pumps of his hand before you’re spilling into his palm, stickying up his fingers and glove while your body shudders below him. You lie on the bed, panting, sporadic aftershocks making you whimper and grasp at the sheets. 

“Now then,” he begins as he peels off the glove. “What do you want for dinner? Pizza or chicken?”

“Pizza,” you say, breath coming out in a winded huff. 

“Fuck you. We’re getting chicken,” he says and tosses the messy glove onto your stomach, flexes his fingers, and leaves. 

You wonder if it’s too early to consider moving into your own place.  



End file.
